


if ever i let you in

by batyatta (atomicwonderwoman)



Series: simmer [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, F/F, Falling In Love, Introspection, Love Confessions, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicwonderwoman/pseuds/batyatta
Summary: Ashe’s been with Angela for only a few weeks, that’s not nearly enough for her to be at ease, to feel like she could stay here forever. Like this is her place. And the very idea of her sitting still, staying somewhere for a longer time is so uncanny she can’t help but smile. She’s been on the run forever and now she’s supposed to do what, stay? Plant the fucking roots?What a joke.
Relationships: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: simmer [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811728
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	if ever i let you in

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I meant to finish it much earlier but life happened I guess.
> 
> Also! You don't need to read the previous part to understand this one ^^
> 
> title from ["Cinnamon"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4x7jORhJntM) by Hayley Williams and it would not be an exaggeration to say that I've kept this album on repeat for the better part of this year, it's just *clenches fist* so good. 
> 
> Enjoy!

1.

Even though Angela’s balcony is on the small side, it has exactly enough space for the two of them to spend time outside on the warmer days. It’s hidden from the direct sun by the old trees growing in the courtyard it’s facing, so it’s perfect for the evening when the worst of the summer heat subsides. It’s set up with a small table, an ashtray on it, and two worn chairs with cushions on the seats. Ashe supposes the balcony at her own apartment is bigger - but it doesn’t have the potted plants someone always insists on giving to Angela that usually die too soon, Angela’s hoodie draped on the back of the chair, or that one knitted blanket they take outside which is forgotten until the rain comes and someone has to hide it. Seated on her preferred chair, close to the railing, Ashe watches the smoke from her cigarette disappear. The evening sky is impossibly blue - it’s that time of the year when the evenings seem to last forever only to turn into the night in the blink of an eye. She has her feet kicked up and watches the trees, enjoying the stillness, the gentleness of the tree branches swayed by the wind, the rustling of the leaves, a quiet voice nearby, probably one of the neighbors. There’s of course occasionally a car passing on the street but it feels far away from here.

It feels like her personal island of peace in the usually busy city which is ridiculous because one, this isn’t even her own apartment, she’s only here because Angela asked her to wait for her. Besides, she’s been with Angela for only a few weeks, that’s not nearly enough for her to be at ease, to feel like she could stay here forever. Like this is her place. And the very idea of her sitting still, staying somewhere for a longer time is so uncanny she can’t help but smile. She’s been on the run forever and now she’s supposed to do what, stay? Plant the fucking roots? 

Not to look for an easy way out when deep down she knows that she doesn’t get to be a part of something anymore?

What a joke.

So she resolves to enjoy this momentary contentment. But she’s ready for the unease to creep in. Ready for the restlessness because there must come a point when she will be getting anxious and removing herself from this situation. Ready to embrace those feelings, that urge. It’s familiar. That’s what she’s always done. But for now, it doesn't come. Now, despite everything, she’s fine. Content. 

And what if she wants to make the most out of this situation? This is just too good to be true, something must give. 

It always has.

With a sigh, she looks up. The sky is already dark, there are ominous-looking clouds gathering and the breeze has turned cold. Her cigarette is burnt to the filter so she leaves the butt in the ashtray, among so many others, most stained with the red lipstick, and heads back inside. Angela should be coming back soon.

2.

Ashe pulls up at the hospital parking lot, sips her iced coffee, and watches out for Angela. The afternoon sun is scorching and it‘s a hard choice between pulling her roof down, hoping for some fresh air, or hiding underneath it from the sun. She loves this weather, though, no matter how uncomfortable it can get. She doesn’t have to wait for long. She looks up from her phone and Angela is walking towards her in her normal clothes, a bag slung over her shoulder with a bright smile. A bright smile that contrasts with the dark circles under her eyes but Ashe has learnt that some things are inevitable. She opens the door and waits for Angela to get comfortable before she hands her a cup with cold brew, from Angela’s favorite coffee shop, the strongest one they make. 

Angela takes it and smiles with gratitude, takes a sip and it’s mesmerizing - her face relaxes, she closes her eyes and leans back in the seat. She sighs and Ashe has to swallow because she knows that sigh all too well. That satisfaction. 

Angela looks at her then and opens her mouth as if to say something and Ashe knows what she wants to say and is stupidly eager to hear it but Angela stops herself. 

“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,” she says instead. Ashe tries to convince herself she’s not disappointed. 

It almost works. 

The condensation gathers at the cup and Angela’s fingers are wet and probably her pants will get wet and they should be leaving the parking lot but Ashe can’t get herself to drive just yet. She watches Angela drink and gently takes the cup away from her. Angela smiles, fond, and kisses her, her lips wet and cold and it’s just a peck on her lips but it’s satisfaction enough. Only then Ashe gives her the cup back and starts the car. 

Angela pulls out the sunglasses from the glove compartment and puts them on, leans back. The radio turns on with the engine and they leave the hospital parking lot, her hand on the stick shift, Angela’s hand on hers, cold and heavy. 

_ Right _ . 

3.

She should have expected that this wouldn’t go the same way it always did the first time they met, the first time she stayed overnight, when she felt Angela’s hand on her wrist, when Angela whispered  _ stay _ and she didn’t pull away. 

Or maybe it was when she first saw her from across the room, talking with McCree and the rest of his friends, looking slightly out of place among them, standing out like the prettiest gem. When Angela noticed her watching and gave her a look that was just enough to have her consider joining them and, as if she knew that it wasn't enough, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to her and how to play her, she topped it off by biting her lip and Ashe was done for way before McCree came rushing to her with his ideas about her being in the same place as him, breaking the charm.

It could have been a fluke. Should have been a fluke. The problem is, that hand on her wrist and a soft whisper was her undoing that first night and on the ones that followed. And, whenever she tried to rationalize leaving, pulling away, Angela seemed to have the ability to cloud her judgment and, at some point, it was just so natural to stay. To come back to her. For the late-night calls to turn into dinner and lunch dates and picking Angela up from work. Doing grocery shopping sometimes and leaving her stuff at Angela’s. 

It didn't feel too serious at first, not for the longest time. She never really paid attention to the fact that they ended up spending most of their free time together until one morning she was asleep, Angela was called in and she kissed her forehead and told her to keep sleeping. And when she woke up at midday there was a set of keys on the nightstand and a note.

She did see Angela later that day. And kept the keys, as the note said.

It was a sort of natural development, after all. Her favorite beer was stored in Angela's fridge, she had a good enough idea of what Angela likes and kept stocked that the hastily scribbled shopping list was perfunctory at best, she kept her makeup next to Angela’s. She had her own drawer that was soon turned into two and then three.

She had become a part of Angela’s life just as Angela has become a part of hers because now, when she went anywhere there was always the thought of bringing Angela there, or showing something to her or how much she would hate it.

Someone somewhere would be proud of her, she thinks.

Then there was an instance when she tried to cook. It started off really well but soon turned into something that was barely edible, as always when she tries cooking something new. There was a good reason why her own fridge was usually empty. Angela came back home, took a look at the aftermath, laughed and kissed her. Then, they ordered takeaway, as usual, and cleaned up together. It was so fucking domestic she would make some snide remark if it was anybody else but it’s them so disdain is simply not there.

Later, when they were watching something, the takeaway boxes stacked on the coffee table and the last of their beers drank, she looked at Angela, who was leaning harder and harder on her side and she couldn’t help that warm feeling in her chest. Not when Angela was so close, so trusting. When she could feel her relax, her breath slow down. Angela fell asleep in her lap, the TV running in the background and fuck if it didn’t fill her with pride, like she finally did something right. Something worthwhile. She ran her fingers through Angela’s hair and it felt so right. Like there was nowhere else she could be, like she wanted this moment of peace to last forever. Like she could maybe make it happen again. 

She stopped telling herself she wasn't getting attached back then. Quite the opposite. That woman would kill her and she would welcome the killing blow with open arms if only it made Angela happy and she didn’t really have anyone to complain about it because Amelie found her misery hilarious for some reason and Jesse was simply no longer an option, no matter how much better they were these days. 

Which was also somewhat Angela’s doing, Ashe just had to figure out how exactly she did it. Still, she couldn’t decide what was weirder - McCree talking to her or approving of her in his roundabout way. 

“She looks better,” he said one day when they were out, waiting for Angela to join them, and pat her on the back and Ashe sputtered and spilled her beer because, out of all things, she did not expect that. It shouldn’t have mattered to her as much as it did.

He had the audacity to laugh at her and she would retort with something but Angela showed up that moment and Ashe had more important things to pay attention to. 

4.

"I think I'm in love with you," she finds herself whispering to Angela who was sleeping off the last few days. She's not ready to tell her about the love thing just yet but she can feel it deep inside. It feels good to whisper it, to give the words a sound. The realization is both exhilarating and terrifying but it’s also  _ right _ . 

She wanted to deny it at first. Tried to convince herself that this is not it, that it's just hormones or some other bullshit. That she's like this because the sex is good and it's the honeymoon phase or whatever it is they call it. But there's also no denying what she feels when she looks at Angela in the morning light, illuminated from behind, her hair a messy halo. When her face is so relaxed, like it doesn't really get most of the time, always thinking, always caring. Worried about her friends, about her patients, about the things at the hospital that are beyond her control. She can't pretend it's just the sex when she wants to smooth the lines on Angela's face, when she wants to give her anything she wants. Anything she needs just so she's happy. Just so she doesn't worry anymore.

So she could be like this all the time. Sleeping in, no responsibilities in sight, her phone muted. Like that, Ashe can watch the steady rise and fall of Angela's chest, the minute movements of her eyelids. She can smooth her hair just a little and her fingertips graze Angela's cheek and Angela ever so slightly leans into the touch. It's adorable.

With some difficulty, she untangles from her and pads to the kitchen where she starts the coffee and brings out all she needs to make pancakes. That's the only thing she's really confident cooking and Angela loves them or so she says. Maybe it's just the novelty of eating her breakfast in bed with no rush, prepared by someone else. Maybe she wants to spare her feelings, only Angela wouldn't do that. Angela would tell her what she thinks is wrong and how she’d fix it.

Besides, in this case, she had the best teacher she could ever imagine - if Bob couldn’t teach her something no one could - and her first attempts were made under his watchful eye. There were enough mishaps on the way that, by the time he was confident she could make her own breakfast without burning the kitchen or poisoning herself, she was basically a master. Truthfully, he taught her more but when she makes it, the food is never as good as his and there was never really a point for her to cook for herself when there are so many takeaway options. Not when it brought back thoughts of him. Of those days. 

But at least pancakes are Angela’s now so it’s easier. 

She's almost done when she hears the rustling of the bedsheets. Then, the bedsprings squeak. Ashe listens in while setting the tray with food and freshly brewed coffee, the kitchen filled with the aroma. She takes it back to the bedroom where Angela is sitting in the messy sheets, stretching. The t-shirt she sleeps in raises, showing a slip of skin. Ashe smiles and sets the tray on the bed, then climbs next to Angela.

"Good morning," she whispers and kisses Angela's cheek. Angela hums in response, still drowsy but perks up when she smells the coffee and food.

"You made breakfast," she mumbles and opens her eyes. "My favorite," she says with a bright smile and digs in.

Ashe watches her from over her own cup of coffee and really, it’s ridiculous how good it feels to be allowed to take care of Angela. She's never been the one to care for people enough to bother but Angela is somewhat worth it. Angela, who would work until she collapses, Angela who forgets that sleep is necessary, Angela who takes a break only when there's no alternative. Angela who’s got a smudge of berry juice on her lips and Liz wants to kiss it off. 

Ashe loves her. Ashe loves her so much she feels she can burst.

And then, like an old friend, it comes. The restlessness. Finally, something familiar. Her fingers tremble when she reaches for her mug and she can barely feel the taste of the pancakes. It’s here, it’s finally here, and her heart is racing but she welcomes the feeling. It’s something she knows all too well, after all. She makes it through breakfast, hoping that Angela doesn’t notice and once they’re done she kisses her on the cheek and leaves with a half-assed excuse.

She gets on her bike and, without a second thought, she gives in and does what she always did when she got in too deep. She runs.

5.

Admittedly, it's not very far. She starts at her apartment, ignores the dust and packs a bag, not really looking at what she’s packing, just making sure she has all the necessities for a trip then she takes her car, fills the tank and drives.

There is only her and the road and the wind blowing around her as she speeds down the highway with the roof pulled down. She feels amazing, the wind in her hair is exhilarating, her heart is beating wildly in her chest and she lets out a shaky laugh. The view is nice enough but she thinks it would be better with someone in the passenger seat, someone who is already a fixture. That’s a train of thought she has no interest pursuing so she shakes her head and focuses on the road.

She should have taken her bike. It’s more immersive that way, less distracting thoughts.

She's not sure where she's driving but, as long as it is away from Angela, away from her bed, it's fine. She doesn't form too many attachments and the money she stole from her parents is more than enough for her to live comfortably without working. She's not sure what the fuck is she doing but it doesn't matter at the moment. 

She just needs to get away.

Angela doesn't call that evening. Maybe she's giving her space. But she is supposed to be on call so they could have called her in. Ashe pretends not to care, ignores the little flash of concern because it would do good for Angela to take a break. It almost works.

She sleeps in the backseat in the parking lot. It’s quiet, save for a car passing by, a little uncomfortable but not that bad. It’s familiar, she’s done it too many times before. She’s far enough from the city and the sky is clear so she can see the stars shining bright above her. She snaps a picture and considers sending it to Angela for a moment.

She decides against it. 

6.

She wakes up with a crick in her neck, stale breath and the beginnings of a headache. She would kill for a proper coffee and a warm meal and it's all within reach but she's not ready yet. So she starts the car and stops at the first gas station, orders a coffee and a deli sandwich. The coffee is subpar, her sandwich also far from ideal but it’s edible. She's had worse. 

She refills the tank, just in case, and takes off.

For some reason, she thought that getting to the seaside would take her longer. It's Europe, not the States so she should not be too surprised, alas. She continues down the road that goes along the coast, the breeze in her hair and she's content.

She leaves the car at the parking lot and goes to the beach, spreads her jacket, and sits down. Watches the waves, the vastness that's just a tiny bit unsettling. It's nice, solitary, there's sand and everything but deep down this isn't what she longs for. 

The breeze is too cold, the sun is not nearly enough and she has to put on a hoodie because the wind is chilly. The sea is beautiful but it has nothing on the desert. The dust, that wind, the sand getting everywhere. She closes her eyes and tries to bring back that perfect calm that was so easy to achieve back home. But the waves are too loud. The wind doesn't whistle the same way, the seagulls are screaming nearby and it smells like brine, even the sand feels different and, try as she may, it’s impossible to ignore. It's nice but it's not even close to what she’s looking for so she gets back to the car, defeated.

She’s not back home but she can’t go back home. That home is gone, there’s no coming back and, even if she did, she knows that it would be wrong. 

She did come back when the dust settled after all. 

She believed that she'd made peace with it. That she moved on. As it turns out, she can’t really let go. Not entirely.

Then there’s Angela and it’s another matter entirely. She may not have a home anymore but, for the first time in so long, she has  _ something _ . The urge to run is still there, even thinking about it makes her heart race but she feels like there's nowhere she can run away from this. This thing that's taken a root in her heart, like a stubborn, beautiful weed. A fucking wildflower. Back when she had a home, when Deadlock was that  _ something _ , with Bob and the boys, it was similar. That warmth, that belonging, their little makeshift family, all of them outcasts clinging to each other. But it's different with Angela. The nagging in the back of her head is more insistent and there’s a promise, she feels that it can be something else. Something more.

She thinks that she's loved before but loving and being in love is something different entirely.

Briefly, she wonders what it would be like to be loved in return. 

She puts a seashell into her pocket, a pretty black thing she grabbed in a flight of fancy and drives on. 

7.

The ride back to her place is surprisingly short - be it because she bothered to turn on the navigation and is no longer winding through the sideroads or she just wants to get back. But it’s still late at night when she gets to her parking spot in the underground garage of her apartment complex. 

Now that she’s finally stopped and has some time to look around, it’s hard to see her apartment as anything but depressing. She didn’t bother decorating when she moved in and it still looks nearly the same as when she got her keys but it’s nowhere near as tidy. Her clothes and shoes are scattered around and she fears looking into the fridge or the cupboards. It’s more than just leaving in haste, it’s the neglect. It’s being so entangled in this thing with Angela that she forgot about everything else. 

She’ll have to deal with this mess too, at some point.

But the rumbling of her stomach reminds her that there are basic needs to be met. She takes a quick look in her fridge but is met with nothing but the light, as expected, so she orders something to eat. In the meantime, she goes to her bathroom, taking off her clothes on the way and leaving them in the hallway. She’ll have to clean up anyway so why should she bother with folding and shit. She takes a quick shower, washing off the ride, the sand and it feels heavenly. She’s done by the time the doorbell rings and she greets the delivery girl in her old t-shirt that used to belong to Bob. It was comfortable as fuck, she forgot all about it running in-between places.

The food is warm and delicious and she’d distract herself with TV if only she bothered to get a TV in the first place and it’s eerily similar to the last time she had this shirt on. Only then she was crying with a bottle of bourbon in her hand, her surroundings ransacked. Everything of value was already stolen and most of the furniture trashed, it was a miracle the couch survived. Though that couch had been with them for so long it had to be indestructible. 

But it didn’t stand a chance against explosives.

Not that it matters anyway. She throws the trash away and goes to her balcony for a smoke. The night sky is dark, covered with clouds and there are no stars to be seen. Someone is learning how to play guitar on their balcony and they are decent enough, their strumming quite pleasant, reminding her of a different time, different guitar player. When everything was much easier, when the sky was different and there were more stars to be seen. More people to share the music with. A car passes nearby and it is peaceful enough. Lonely. There is no hoodie to steal, no chair to sit on. She really didn’t put any effort into this space, did she. Then, someone opens the door nearby and she can hear people spill outside, their loud voices, a glass breaking. It’s too much. Her peace is shattered and once again she’s reminded that this place wasn’t supposed to be a long time solution anyway. 

She goes back in and heads to bed. It is harder than usual to fall asleep - the mattress is just a little too soft, the room is too dark and the laughs and voices coming from the outside are just too loud. Closing the window is an option but it would be too hot and stuffy. She is slightly cold, as always, but there is no one to warm her up. No one to snuggle to and who would later complain about her stealing the blankets. She’ll manage, she always does.

But it is also her place, her favorite t-shirt, favorite bedsheets. It is slightly dusty but she can still smell traces of her own laundry detergent. It is harder to fall asleep - there is this feeling of being out of place that she can’t quite shake off, yet falling asleep here is also familiar in some ways. Her stuff is there, she can sprawl all over the bed, there will be no alarm, nothing to interrupt her slumber. Her breathing slows and deepens and much sooner than she expected, she’s asleep.

And she wakes up to the sound of drilling at ass o’clock. The sun outside is high enough, as it always is in the summer morning, but the curtains keep it out, just as she intended when she moved there. She doesn’t have any alarms on so it must be one of her neighbors who decided that it’s the best time to renovate their unit and drilling at the unholy hour in the morning is apparently necessary. They must have been at it for some time now but she’s been spending so much time at Angela’s she managed to forget about it. 

Might as well forfeit any attempt at sleep and get something to eat. Her fridge is bare, as expected, but there is a nice cafe nearby so she gets ready in her bathroom which has all that she needs, thankfully. 

She’s thrilled to discover that, even though she left some of it at Angela’s, she’s got enough of her makeup stuff here, the stuff that she doesn’t use on a day-to-day basis. She puts it on meticulously, a look slightly more complicated than her usual cat-eye and red lip, her movements practiced and hand steady. Some of this stuff she forgot she even had and it’s a nice surprise when she finds her palette with the more flashy colors. Not to mention, it’s fun to experiment a little. She kind of forgot how much she likes to do makeup when she wants to put in the time and attention.

Much better than her bare face.

All done, she goes to the cafe around the corner, her phone in hand and she puts down her own shopping list as she waits. She can’t remember when she had last cleaned her space, probably never properly so makes a note to get some cleaning supplies as well as the food. 

Her place is quiet when she gets back, thank whatever deity is looking over her. She puts away the food, rolls up her sleeves and starts cleaning. She starts with the laundry, picks up the clothes strewn in the hallway as well as the small heap gathered in her living room and bedroom. There’s also some in the bag that she took for her trip and in her car so she makes a trip for that as well. She divides it by colors and throws in the first load. Then she goes back to her bedroom because she needs to put the clean clothes somewhere and there it is. In the back of her wardrobe, it used to be hidden under the clothes but now a lone suitcase is standing out and she can no longer just skip over it. Pretend it doesn’t exist. 

She breathes in and out and takes it out of the back of her wardrobe. The leather feels good under her fingers and it is not even as heavy as she thought it would be. 

Still. There’s a good reason why she kept it out of sight, why she didn’t touch it after moving in.

She hadn’t touched it since she packed it up the first time and now she unzips it and it’s done. 

She packed it in a rush and it shows. She had to move fast, the Deadlock operation busted, cops could show up at any moment and there was stuff she just couldn’t leave behind. She sits down on the floor, crosses her legs. It starts easy. There’s her hat, a little crumpled but that’s nothing that she can’t fix easily. She runs her fingers over the brim, bites her lips. Puts on the hat and looks into a mirror and she can almost see herself on the day she got it, much younger, with her hair long. She smiles. Pulls out her old vest, the Deadlock logo still clear, leather soft under her fingers. She hangs it up on the hanger, carefully. Next, comes the shoulder guard and yellow bandana. Jesse had the same. She wonders if he kept it. 

Then comes the harder part. There’s a bowler hat and a fur-lined vest, much bigger than hers. An old shirt, much too big for her. It’s all dirty. Dusted with sand and dirt, there’s a bloodstain on the shirt that Bob could never quite get out. It always bewildered her, how there was something impossible even for him. Her hands tremble as she brings the shirt to her nose hoping for something. Anything. It doesn’t smell like Bob anymore, just dust. The shirt ends up with the rest of the dirty laundry, so does a sweatshirt she always stole when she was cold. It was at that exact point of wear that made it wonderfully soft to touch and the most comfortable. In between the various papers that she should have burned, old ledgers and deals, she finds photos. Her with Bob, her with the boys. The night they founded Deadlock and a selfie with a smiling McCree. 

They were so young. So stupid. 

There’s a photo she has with Bob, on her graduation day. It was taken by Jesse and actually, he had to talk her into it because it didn’t seem cool at the time, taking a photo to celebrate an event that held barely any importance. It was just something that she figured she’d be better off doing, most of the knowledge she acquired at school was removed from her lifestyle, her plans but Bob insisted and she couldn’t quite say no to him. Bob is standing behind her, with his hands on her shoulders, like a proud parent. Because that’s who he was. Her parent, much more deserving of that title, than the people who were related to her by blood. And damn, he was so proud of her on that day, he made damn sure she knew it. 

She can feel the tears on her cheeks and it’s startling. It was so long ago but it still feels like a fresh wound. The days after Bob died were a blur of dealing with all the bureaucracy, his burial, running the Deadlock by herself before that last blow from Los Muertos, the blow that obliterated everything and left her running. Gone were the days of easy camaraderie. There was no one to take care of her, no one for her to take care of.    
  
Only her and the empty hideout that she burnt to ashes.

The beeping of her washing machine brings her back to the present. She rubs her eyes, moves the laundry to the dryer and starts another load. She puts the photos on a windowsill for the time being and proceeds to sort through the old papers. Nearly everything ends up in a pile to burn but at the bottom of the suitcase, there’s a notebook. It has a dedication on the first page, she knows it by heart and she can feel the tears come back again. It’s nothing special, just Bob’s recipe book, the one he gave her when he taught her how to fend for herself, after the long, arduous hours in the kitchen. The one with her favorite dessert. He was always too patient with her, even when she cursed him and yelled at him. He took it all in stride and gently guided her through the motions. It was the same when he taught her how to shoot only that one was much more fun and something she actually had the aptitude for.

She dries her eyes and puts the notebook away. 

It’s easier, after. She throws the papers back in and puts the suitcase away, folds her clothes. Dusts all the surfaces, cleans up the kitchen and in the end, she’s sitting on her couch with a glass of bourbon in hand. The place is cleaner than ever and smells like a cinnamon candle she bought for a reason she can’t really comprehend. It feels warmer now, disgustingly homey. Not as good as Angela’s but it could actually be pleasant to spend her time here. There’s a storm raging outside but right now she’s safe and warm.

Her phone chimes with a message and she knows without looking that it’s from Angela. Few other people bother with her.

_ I’m done with work, are you coming tonight? _

_ Come to mine _

Before long, there's a knock on her door. Angela is soaked and that is probably the reason why she’s cursing when Ashe opens the door. Nonetheless, she looks up at Ashe and smiles, so bright it can rival the sun and maybe it’s the alcohol but Ashe’s heart leaps in her chest and she can’t help but pull her into an embrace, into the warmth of her home. 

8.

Angela comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her and her hair up and for a second it looks like a scene out of a movie, with the soft light behind her and the steam surrounding her, her eyes closed. Then Angela’s towel slips off and it’s even more like a movie but she curses and the charm is broken. Ashe doesn’t really mind. She has warm clothes, straight out of the dryer ready for Angela and she takes them, puts them on. She looks good in everything but if fuck if it doesn’t feel special to see her in Liz’s own clothes. 

Anyway.

She has tea ready for her and Angela takes it gratefully. She looks around, curiously and it hits Liz that she never really invited Angela here. But this apartment is also so empty. Impersonal. She takes her to the bedroom, instantly aware of the photos on the nightstand. She meant to put them away or frame or something. She’s not sure she can bear looking at them but maybe she is. Maybe it’s time to keep them out, to look at them, to stop running from that part of her life.    
  
Angela, however, doesn’t comment, maybe she doesn’t notice. She slides under the covers. Ashe joins her and Angela snuggles closer to her, hides her face in Liz’s chest.    
  
“I know it’s stupid,” Angela says quietly. “But I missed you.”

“It’s been a day,” Liz replies and pulls her closer.

“I know, like I said, it’s stupid.”

“I missed you too,” Liz needs to pause, to take a breath, to still her heart a little. Closes her eyes. The first part is easy, it is what comes after that is truly terrifying but the bourbon she had makes it a tiny bit easier. “I think I love you.”

“Oh,” Angela shifts just slightly. Takes her hand. Liz keeps her eyes closed, bites her lips. Braces herself. Swallows.

“You don’t need to say it back,” she says, cursing herself because of course, that’s how it is. Of course, she’s rushed it, of course, she’s fucked up. Tell her to run a gang and she takes to it like a fish to water, tell her to express her feelings, to feel literally anything and she’s fucking everything up, again and again. For herself. For everyone involved. She sits up and tries to pull away, to get out of bed but Angela has a firm grip and she can’t escape. She can’t take it. Can’t take the pity, the inevitable guilt because Angela has a fucking bleeding heart and she would feel guilty about it and it’s just too much. It was just her and her stupid feelings and Angela has no business feeling guilty because Liz can’t control herself. Her stupid heart.

Her pride is already hurting as it is.

“It’s not that,” Angela says and Liz thinks she can hear a smile in her voice. “I do love you too. I think. I certainly care about you a lot. It’s just so early. We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks and I don’t want to say anything too soon.”

Liz feels her warm breath and a touch of her lips on her hand, the one Angela doesn’t let go. 

“I just want to be sure,” she says. Liz breathes. She can hear the words, she can understand the logic but she’s still mortified. 

“I got burned once and I don’t want to repeat that mistake.”

Liz opens her eyes. Looks at Angela and the lack of pity is a relief. The sadness, the fear is not what she expects. And maybe Angela is right. She can kinda understand it, maybe it is too soon but she knows what she feels. And she knows what she wants. As it turns out, she may not know enough about Angela yet but it’s the same for Angela. No matter how intense it’s been there are things, important things she hasn’t told her yet. Things she’s still not entirely at peace with. It just didn’t occur to her that Angela may be the same. Have similar doubts, similar fears.

“Ok,” she says. Breathes in and out. “Ok.”

She needs a cigarette, something to occupy her hands. Her attention. Her mouth so she doesn’t say anything else. 

“I’m just gonna have a smoke,” she says and pries Angela’s fingers off her wrist. “And then I’ll be back and we’ll pretend it never happened.”

Angela opens her mouth but Liz stops her. “Don’t. Just don’t apologize, it’s fine I get it. I just need a moment.”

Angela’s shoulders sag but she nods. Liz is so grateful that she doesn’t follow her out of bed, just watches as she puts on Bob’s sweatshirt because it’s cold outside and leaves the room.

9.

Liz watches the smoke disappear and absentmindedly plays with the lighter, flicks it on and off. She’s got her elbows propped on the railing and maybe it wasn’t her best decision because it was wet and now her sleeves and back are wet and cold and sticking to her skin but that’s really beside the point. The air is cold, humid from the storm. She hoped that smoking would be enough to numb the hurt, to make it bearable but she knew that it wouldn’t cut it so she has her bottle of bourbon with her and she sips it slowly. Her cigarette break is much longer than it should be but Angela doesn’t come for her. It’s good. It’s exactly what she wants right now. 

To be alone, to stew on her stupidity or drink until she can no longer think, until she gets into that fuzzy mindset when there’s only so much she can process. When everything is simple.

It’s a good thing that bourbon is doing its job. She throws the cigarette butt away and lights a new one, inhales, closes her eyes, relishes the pleasure. Ignores the lingering wetness of her cheeks. 

When she finishes her second cigarette she deems herself ready to go back. She throws the butt to the now empty bottle and stops at the bathroom on the way back, washes her face, brushes her teeth. She avoids looking at her reflection because she knows what she’ll look like - pale and washed out and fucking-

She looks at the sink instead and the shell she picked up is somehow on it, she can’t remember putting it there. Angela’s towel is on the towel rack, next to hers, folded neatly. She goes back to the bedroom. The nightlight at her side of the bed is on and Angela is turned away from the door, bless her. She’s pretending to sleep, Liz knows because her breathing is not deep enough, she looks rigid. She turns the light off and embraces her from behind, feeling how tense she is. Hears her draw a sharp inhale. Feels Angela’s hand clasp her, intertwines their fingers.

“Don’t worry, Angel,” she whispers. She plants a kiss on Angela’s nape. “I’ll be fine.”

She lies down and in that moment she can almost believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are fuel for a serotonin deprived brain and they mean the world ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/batyatta)


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